


Close your eyes and think of baseball

by sublightsleeper



Category: Deadpool (2016)
Genre: Frottage, I think I may be the only person on earth who ships this, M/M, dubcon, handjobs, seriously very dubious consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 18:52:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12326814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sublightsleeper/pseuds/sublightsleeper
Summary: “Close your eyes and think of baseball.” Still vaguely threatening.“Don’t you think about baseball when you don’t want to be hard? Because I got the impression this wasn’t going to stop until the big finale.”





	Close your eyes and think of baseball

“Wade.”

He doesn’t answer the sleepy voice, doesn’t even make a sound to acknowledge he heard anything. “Wade, is that your hand on my dick?”

It is. It is his hand on Weasel’s dick, dry and scarred against soft, half hard skin. Wade is pressed against his back, nose nudging against the hair at the nape of his neck. Honestly, if it wasn’t for this being supremely fucked up, Wade would think he’s dreaming. 

Because he doesn’t remember getting here. He doesn’t remember driving or walking or thinking about this. All he knows is that he’s here now, hand wrapped around his friend’s dick in the dark of his bedroom. 

“Yeah.” The answer is just as dry as his grip. (Apparently this master plan didn’t include lubrication.)

“Okay.” This close, he can feel the breath that Weasel pulls in, the way it pushes his back against Wade’s chest. “And if I told you to stop?”

“Then I’d coat my dick in blood and fuck you.” Wade’s voice. Wade’s words, Wade’s warning. Even if Wade feels like he’s hearing it secondhand, just like Weasel. 

“Okay.” Another steadying breath. It’s like seeing the man behind the curtain. But instead of a giant green power ranger head, it’s the fact that Weasel actually fucking reacts to things. But not with words or expressions. With breathing.

“Close your eyes and think of baseball.” Still vaguely threatening. 

“Don’t you think about baseball when you don’t want to be hard? Because I got the impression this wasn’t going to stop until the big finale.” 

“Fine, jesus. Think of Heather Locklear. Or Bea Arthur. Look, I don’t know what kind of tits you’re into, but think of those. Close your eyes and it’ll all be over soon.”

Wade would swear to God that he hears the swallow in the silence that follows. Because now he sounded like some CSI branded rapist. Is that what this was? 

“What if I wanted to think about you?” The voice is thin in the darkness, and Wade’s grip tightens reflexively. Weasel sucks in a breath through his teeth, and goes very still. “Okay, got it. Thinking about you is off limits. Take it easy. You break it, you buy it.”

Wade’s grip loosens, one finger at a time. This time when he speaks, it feels like it’s coming out of his own mouth. “I used to think about it. All those times I ordered a blowjob. Just going back behind the bar and fucking taking it.” There’s a twitch of flesh in his palm. Huh. Welcome to the party, Weasel Jr. 

“I’d make you choke on my cock in front of everybody. Then I’d bend you over the bar and eat your ass until you begged me to fuck you.” Deadpool Jr was in on the action now, nestled comfortably between Weasel’s ass cheeks. 

There’s an off kilter, stuttering rhythm between his slick fist (thanks for the lube, buddy) and his dick against Weasel’s ass crack. And the uneven sound of Weasel’s breathing. “I don’t--I’m not a beggar. N-not the begging type.” For the first time, his hips shift. “But you know, for the sake of realism….I’d probably say something. Like ‘don’t stop’.”

Wade presses his forehead against the shoulder of Weasel’s t-shirt and he’s the one breathing loud now, grip forgotten as he ruts. Wade loses himself to it, teeth sinking into fabric, and the flesh beneath. “So uh, in this hypothetical humiliation fuck-”

“It’s about everyone knowing you’re mine.” There’s a ring of sodden fabric that he can see by the light seeping in through the window. Wade knows he sounds crazy, wrecked with it. He doesn’t fucking care. 

“You’re a couple years too late to the party, man. Everyone knows that. Trust me.” Flippant, easy. Nothing like the hesitant hand curling on top of Wade’s over Weasel’s dick to start the movement again, quick and dirty. When Wade doesn’t answer, Weasel just keeps talking. “So like I was saying. In this unsanitary hypothetical in a room full of people, do I get to come?”

Now that is some 50 Shades of Grey shit and Wade’s dick is on board with it being up for negotiation. He comes in his heart dotted boxers like the eternal adolescent he is, face buried against Weasel’s shoulder. 

Scarred thumb traces across the head, and Weasel breathes out jesus, Wade and that’s all the motivation he needs to double down on focus, to start working him over like a Mormon kid left alone for the first time. 

It doesn’t take long to hear the pained-punch hiss of breath and feel wet heat pulsing over his hand and between his fingers. Wade keeps at it until Weasel’s hips are bucking like they’re seizing, and he’s peeling Wade’s hand off. “Okay, okay. Alright. Take it easy. You’re gonna take skin off.”

The aw man is equally quiet when Wade plasters his jizz covered hand against Weasel’s stomach, but he doesn’t make any effort to move away. “It’s good, you know. That hypothetical me isn’t left with blue balls. That’d make me look like a bitch.”

“What kind of sicko do you think I am?” Honestly, Wade doesn’t fucking want to know. “Who fucks a guy and doesn’t give him a reach around?”


End file.
